O! Say You Can See
by Sakura Tsukikage
Summary: America grows up throughout history. To commemorate the Fourth of July.


I wrote this fic in two days, and it about killed me, I swear.

**O! Say Can You See**

_**By the dawn's early light**_

1775

At first, America just thought he wanted to be independent. To be free, to be who he wanted to be and do what he wanted to do, to make his own decisions (to make England see that he _could be_ all those things, just like _England_ was, that America was just as strong and self-reliant as anyone in Europe). That he was anyone's equal.

But that—it changed.

The pearly softness of the morning air shivered along his skin, just a touch of sunlight threading through the pre-dawn gray. Everything was completely still. It almost made the battlefield feel peaceful, quieting somehow the reek of fear and death.

America looked down to see one of England's red uniforms covering the back of an unmoving corpse, a man with sparse graying hair whose face beneath the blood and the waxy pallor of death looked as if it might have belonged to someone's kindly uncle.

He swallowed and knelt to close the man's staring eyes.

He'd won this battle. No one had thought he could do it, no one, but he had. They had.

He stared out over Concord's North Bridge, still braced on his knees. England was retreating to Boston. He'd done it. He'd won a battle he hadn't even been sure was coming.

He'd beaten _England_.

America looked down at his hands and flexed them, curling them into fists and then smoothing them back out. They were a boy's hands, still, broad and strong and callused from hard work, not from holding a gun. He curled them into the positions they'd take to pick up a rifle, shifting it to his shoulder and settling the stock, sighting along the barrel. His fingers squeezed an imaginary trigger and he could almost feel the recoil of the stock slamming back hard into the muscle of his shoulder. He could almost see the man fall.

He took a deep breath and opened his hands; let the rifle between them dissipate into the morning air.

He wanted more, now. He wanted to stand for something. He just wasn't sure yet what that was.

_**What so proudly we hailed**_

1777

"We have something to show you, ah, Mr. Jones." Mr. Adams still sounded vaguely uncomfortable addressing America that way, even though he'd refused to call America anything else since he realized who he really was (he'd been "lad," or "boy" before that, and the way Adams had flushed the few times he'd slipped up afterward and realized who he was calling "boy" had kind of made America want to laugh—but he hadn't, because he was too grateful to the man, admired him too much, for that).

Mr. Adams and Mr. Jefferson and the rest of the Continental Congress had helped him decide what to stand for. Helped him to be more than just himself. To stand for equality and liberty and _freedom_, for _life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness_, and he could have just hugged Mr. Jefferson, really, for that phrase (except he wouldn't, because Mr. Jefferson would probably be embarrassed). It sounded so perfect, in his head, on his lips, and that—that was something he could really fight for, and have it mean something.

America got up from where he'd been seated, watching the Second Continental Congress through the door with his chin propped on one fist. "Yes, sir?" he asked, brushing his hands idly against his breeches. His other wrist was stinging, and he was a bit sore all over that day, but the ache was manageable.

Adams sighed impatiently. "I must have told you a thousand times, Mr. Jones," he said. "You are not required to address me in that manner. Call me Mr. Adams, if you so wish."

"Naw," America responded, and shrugged. "That's all right. What is it?"

Adams shook his head. "We've reached a resolution," he said, "as to the design of our—the new flag, and I wished to let you know."

America's breath seemed to stick somewhere in his throat. "O-oh?" he stammered out, and knew immediately that he'd failed at trying to sound as nonchalant as he'd have liked to. "Can I—can I see it, sir?"

"Of course," Adams replied, sounding a bit surprised that America would even ask. He reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and brought out a folded piece of paper, which he held out toward America.

America noticed absently that his fingers were trembling as he took it and unfolded it, spreading it out against his knee so he could look at it properly.

It was a simple sketch, with words scribbled in between lines to indicate colors. The flag it portrayed was somewhat similar to the old flag of the colonies, but where England's flag had been in the canton was a simple background labeled "naval blue" and a circle of thirteen stars.

America's throat closed, and he struggled to swallow. He couldn't breathe for a long moment. He brushed his fingers over the sketch, trailing them over the stripes, brushing the circle of stars with his thumb.

"Is it satisfactory?" Adams asked, but America couldn't speak. He nodded mutely, unable to tear his eyes away from the sketch.

A moment later he realized tears were sliding down his cheeks when they began splashing onto the paper, soaking through it quickly. He quickly snatched the precious paper out of harm's way and sniffed, hot and ashamed, rubbing his arm over his eyes and taking a deep breath. "'s just," he said, thickly, hearing his voice crack high and break, and then he didn't know what to say, "just . . . I . . . thank you, sir. Thank you. It's . . . 's wonderful."

Adams smiled, wry and just a bit affectionate. "My dear country," he said, "I am merely glad you find it satisfactory."  
_**  
At the twilight's last gleaming**_

1781

It had been raining, so he didn't know when the last light of twilight left the sky. America still stood on the hill overlooking Yorktown, his musket dangling at his side.

He hadn't moved from that spot for hours. He could see the French fleet, spread out across the harbor, see the smoke still wafting from the battlefield, being slowly tamped down by the rain.

England was going to surrender. He knew it. He could feel it everywhere in him, from the buzzing, tingling excitement behind his eyes to the tips of his fingers, the soles of his feet, itching as if he should be moving.

He hadn't moved yet. A solid ache had lodged in his chest, beneath his sternum, at the sight of England's tears, deep, underneath the shivering tingle.

He was sure it would fade.

He felt light despite it, light and empty and free and strong. He'd won. He was independent. Or he would be, soon enough.

His other hand tightened on the fabric of the flag clasped tight between his fingers. His flag. One of his soldiers had pressed it into his hand as he turned his back on England and walked away, trying to hide the fact that there were tears in his own eyes. He was bigger than that, stronger, better than that. He was _America_. The United States of America.

No longer British America. Never again.

Because he'd won. He'd made his decisions. He'd chosen freedom, decided to fight for himself and for things bigger than himself. He'd done something no one had ever done before, and he'd won.

Even though there were tears on his face, too, he tilted his head back into the rain and smiled up at the sky.

_We the people of the United States, in order to form a more perfect union . . . ._

We hold these truths to be self-evident.

The rain washed the tears from his face.

_**Whose broad stripes and bright stars**_

1785

China reached out to touch the flag, trailing his hand over the bright bold patterning, and smiled a little, as if to himself.

America shifted, nervously, confused (and not intimidated at all) by this strange old nation with his long black hair and deep dark eyes and enigmatic expressions. "D'you like it?" he asked. He wasn't sure why China had spent so long gazing at his flag, turning it over his hands and running his fingers along its strips and stars, before finally draping it over the table and standing back to look at it again, but he was hoping it was a good thing.

China tilted his head to one side and gazed down at the flag and said, slowly, in English. "Yes . . . it is . . . very beautiful? Yes. Very beautiful."

America blushed right down to his toes, he was pretty sure. "Y-you really—really think so?" he stammered out, then told himself to get a grip. The others would never take him seriously if he flushed up like an adolescent girl given her first pretty compliment at every halfway admiring thing anyone said about him.

China smiled, more widely this time. "Like a flower," he said. "So brightly patterned and complex . . . like imperial peonies. Other flags . . . are so simple, not complicated, like this one. I have seen no other like it."

America's face had gone bright red; he could tell from the heat he could feel in his cheeks. "Aw, shucks," he said. "You do know how to flatter a guy."

China looked at him questioningly.

"Ah, um," America said, not sure how to respond. "I . . . thank you?"

China nodded, and turned back to the flag, running his fingers over it one more time. "Now," he said. "Are we to discuss trade agreements, young nation of the flower flag?"

And America blushed all over again, but took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. "Yeah," he said. "Let's get this thing started."

_**Through the perilous fight**_

1863

He decided, back near the beginning of it all, that this had to be what had happened to the older nations who had maybe gone a little crazy, a long time ago. It hurt, so terribly, like he was cracking down the middle, and every gunshot fired felt like it buried itself somewhere inside of him and festered there, hot and swelling with infection. He'd wondered if he were going a little crazy while his mind fragmented and General Lee and General Grant and Mr. Lincoln all shouted at him and wanted different things from him, and he wanted to help, he did, but he couldn't do all of it when the things they wanted couldn't both happen, and they were tugging him in different directions until he was sure he'd tear apart from it all, because it felt like it was already starting. And sometimes he'd wake up in the morning and look down at himself and wonder how he was still in one piece, because he didn't feel like one.

By now he was pretty sure he was crazy, and was wondering if this was it, and by God, he just wanted it to be over.

They'd told him he should come with Mr. Lincoln, said it was important, and even though it all hurt worse just _thinking_ about going back to Gettysburg, Mr. Lincoln still believed in him, even though America himself was starting to lose hope. So he went, limping painfully onto the train because he refused to use crutches or accept help from anyone, because this was his problem, no one else's, and his own fault because he'd never been able to make up his mind about this before. But he was so tired, and he hurt so much, and finally he couldn't hold out against it all any longer, and the conversation he was struggling to carry on with his boss ended up with him in a pain-streaked doze half-curled on the bench across from where Mr. Lincoln was sitting, listening to the president's pen scratching across the paper as he drifted in and out of feverish dreams.

Lincoln's big, spare hand against his forehead woke him, and America looked blurrily up at him and went cold and then hot with mortification and tried to sit up all at once, but Lincoln just said, "Easy," and help him lever himself up without falling back down. "There's no particular hurry." And America thought, _maybe he doesn't want to go and see Gettysburg, either_.

He was there, on the battlefield, when Lincoln gave his address, standing in the crowd with his fists clenched under his sleeves so no one could see how deeply his nails were cutting into his palms with the effort of standing up straight and being attentive. Because he could remember, _remember_ the deaths, each and every one of them cutting into him, deep into his heart until it bled, he could _feel_ it bleeding, and there'd been warm blood soaking the front of his uniform.

But then Lincoln said, _Four score and seven years ago_, and America's attention was fixed on him. Because—because Lincoln was talking about _him_, and maybe it was just his imagination or the crazies running around in his head right then, but he could've sworn the man's eyes kept returning to him, and they held such a mixture of hope and pride and sympathy and _challenge_ that he couldn't look away.

_That this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom—and that government: of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth._

America's eyes filled with tears. He raised one hand to scrub them away, but felt hot moisture leak from beneath his eyelashes and trickle down his cheeks all the same. He snuck a peek at the woman next to him and realized that she was crying, too.

And he felt warm, inside, again, finally some ember of hope and strength and determination he'd thought long extinguished flaring dully back to life at Lincoln's words.

_Not perish from the earth?_ he thought. _All right._ Because he could do that, at least. And maybe all he had to do was hang on a little longer.

**_O'er the ramparts we watched_**

1886

"I . . ." France said, uncertainly, and that got America's attention right away, because France? Uncertain? _Really_? "My . . . ."

America grinned at him, because he was feeling pretty amazing right then. And because of all the things France had done for him, even if they'd been accompanied by a great deal of touching and flirting and yeah, okay, some . . . um. Some kissing. But he'd come and helped America fight England, and he'd brought Prussia and Spain, too, and he'd taught America all kinds of things and helped him with so much, back then. And had it really been a hundred years already? "Yeah, France?" America asked, and wrapped an arm loosely around the older nation's shoulders, giving him a quick squeeze. "Thanks for coming to my party. It's going to be the biggest one yet, you know!"

"Indeed, I am aware," France said, warmly, and kissed America quickly, lightly, in return, on the mouth. Which made America blush and lean back, uncomfortable even now, but that—that was just France. "That is why I have brought you a gift. Which I am somewhat anxious over, I admit it to you. Would you like to see it now, or wait?"

America had never been all that good at waiting for gifts. "Um," he said. "Now."

France laughed at that. "Very well," he said, and ruffled America's hair slightly. "This way, _cherie_."

"Don't call me that," America griped as he followed, "it makes me sound like a girl."

France just laughed—and then flung out one arm, dramatically, but America hardly even noticed, his grumbling forgotten completely. He gasped, and caught his breath, and he could feel his jaw drop.

The statue was _beautiful_. Tall and proud and _majestic_, swathed in copper robes and with a torch held high above her head.

"She is Lady Liberty," France said, and there was just a bit of smugness in his voice. "_La liberté éclairant le monde_—'Liberty Enlightening the World.' As you did for us, my dear, stubborn, brilliant young friend."

America had no idea what to say. The flame of the torch was coated in gold, it had to be, and she was just so beautiful, so . . . so literally breathtaking.

"Do you . . . like it?" France asked after a moment of silence while America couldn't seem to do anything but stare.

"_Like_ it?" America breathed. "_Like_ it?" Before he knew what he was doing, he leaned forward and pressed a sloppy kiss to France's cheek, then took a deep breath and shifted his head and kissed him, maybe a little clumsily, on the lips. France smiled against the kiss and, of course, took advantage to slip his tongue into America's mouth. America just laughed, when normally he'd most likely have lost his temper and his composure at that and probably screamed at France a bit, and pulled away, gone more than a little giddy. "Oh, God, France," he babbled, "it's _wonderful_, it's the best thing anyone's ever given me—it's so _huge_—you're so great, France! _Thank_ you!"

France looked unbearably smug now, but America couldn't find it in himself to care. "I am so glad it pleases you," France said, "my people and I discussed it for months, what to give you for this very important birthday."

"Liberty," America whispered, and looked out over New York Harbor. "Thank you, France. It's so beautiful."

He knew exactly where he'd put her.  
_**  
Were so gallantly streaming**_

1908

He knew what was coming when England started toward him. And he was proud (and not even a little bit nervous, not at all), to be visiting London like this. It was nice that they were having the Olympics in the city, he guessed. Nice for England, though it wasn't at all like he cared. But he knew what was coming, because that was England's king, and America was carrying the flag for the procession, and there was that set, pinched look to England's features.

"No," he said, as soon as England reached him.

England's features went blank. "I'm sure," he said icily, "I have no idea what you mean."

"No," America said. "Just _no_, England, you hear me? He's not my king."

And he knew they both heard _anymore_.

High spots of color spread, burning, in England's cheeks, and his eyes went wide for a moment before narrowing in anger. "It is not a matter of sovereignty," he gritted out from between clenched teeth. "It is a matter of _respect_."

"No," America said again. "I'm not a monarchy, okay?" And because England's eyes had gone so wide again at that, and he didn't want him to shatter his teeth or anything from grinding them so hard, he said, maybe a little more gently, "this flag dips to no king." _It's not just . . . not yours_. "All right?"

"Very well," England snapped, and turned on his heel and stalked away.  
_**  
And the rockets' red glare  
**_  
1917

He wasn't sure how many people had died in this war. It was like nothing he'd ever seen before, no war he'd ever fought in. The closest to how it felt to him was his own Civil War, but even that had been different. For one thing, that'd been back at home, in his own beloved house, not sprawled over the battlefields of France and Flanders in violent, ugly scars, as raw and sore as the scarring and bandages and tracks of clumsy stitches over France's chest that America had seen when he'd helped him with his bandages just a few days ago.

England looked little better, really, even though it wasn't his lands and fields the armies had trampled into fences and rolls of barbed wire beneath their feet. Poor Belgium—America had barely been able to look at her, but he'd forced himself to. Because he'd come over here to fight, and the least he could do was look the people he'd come for in the face.

America knew he was late, but hey, he was there _now_, and he couldn't very well just go and poke his nose into any European war he felt like. Could he, now?

He could hear the pounding of the artillery as it started up again, machine-gun fire sparking like flares in the night. He'd be up in the sky that night, again, the way he was so often these days, and that night he'd see about out-flying Germany.

He was strong, after all. He was great, and he was a hero. Shouldn't be too hard.

Because the other nations—all of them. For the first time, when he'd arrived there—and stopped and stared in horror—they'd welcomed him like an adult, not a child or an overgrown, adolescent boy. They'd been all business, gratitude buried beneath methodical stoicism and tired focus, and America had felt in the way they looked at him that they'd acknowledge his strength, were grateful for it.

Like in those old stories England used to tell him, about knights and chivalry and slaying dragons. And maybe he could be that hero, the one they needed here. The hero always came in at the last second. To save the damsel and slay the dragon and save the day.

Because late or not, he'd come. And heroes always came.

America climbed into his plane. He was going to show the world a thing or two.

_**The bombs bursting in air**_

1941

At first all he could feel was the shock. It slammed through the ground under him in a cresting wave that swept up to knock him off his feet, so that the next thing he knew he was lying on his stomach with his face pressed into rough dirt as if it had reached up to meet him and pulled him down flat. His ears rang like an alarm, and for a moment he couldn't move, and even when he lifted his head and blinked he couldn't see. There was warm liquid running sticky down his face, and when he lifted his hand to touch his forehead his fingers smeared warm wetness and sparked pain that went stabbing through his head.

He blinked, the first stirrings of panic spreading through him, starting to feel frantic—something'd _happened_, he couldn't be lying on the ground stunned and useless, the hero had to get up and do something in moments like this, when something unexpected and terrible knocked him off his feet—and slowly his vision began to clear.

The first thing he saw was his own hand, wet with blood. He reached up to touch his forehead again, clapping his fingers to it as he struggled to curl his knees under him and dragged himself up to his knees and the other hand, swaying. He looked up.

The second blast came from further away, but it knocked him flat into the ground again. He groaned, feeling blood trickle down his chin from where he'd just bitten through his own lip. His ears felt wet, and when he reached up to touch them he realized they were bleeding, and swallowed. His eyesight didn't quite want to focus.

That was when he saw it, as he looked blearily up at the sky and wondered desperately what was going on, what was happening. The plane came, buzzing low over his head, and as clear as day he could make out the insignia of the rising sun.

The fighter was flying in the direction of the harbor.

America gasped, felt the sense of betrayal stab into him like one of Japan's swords, take his breath from him the way the bombs had.

Japan was bombing him. _Him_. Bombing Pearl Harbor. Bombing America's fleet, what in _hell_ did he think he was _doing_, America wasn't even—

He wrenched himself up to his feet and staggered and nearly fell, but instead he clenched his fists, refusing to let himself sway back down to his knees even when nausea washed over him in a trembling wave and his vision fractured into sparks and blurred double images. He took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders.

Shock and pain and betrayal shifted into rage, misting his blurred vision red, pounding hot and angry through his blood.

All right, fine. If that was how Japan wanted it.

If that was how Japan wanted it, he was in this to the end.

_**Gave proof through the night**_

1945

Sweat dripped down his back and stung in his eyes. He could feel the sharp sudden throbbing as it trickled over the old whip scars along his spine, over his ribs—they'd still been raw, healing wounds a week ago—that Japan had put there, perspiration soaking the bandages around his arm, over his hip. (Even England didn't know about them, about what had happened to America that time he'd been shot down over the Philippines, and he planned to keep it that way; it could just be his and Japan's little secret, and eventually the wounds would fade.)

He swiped his forehead down across his shoulder, but there wasn't anything he could do about his back, and maybe he just preferred it that way. Because of the reminder it offered him, because of the anger it sparked coiling in his belly, and because the way this battle was going, men fighting and dying, _his_ men, his boys, and Japan's too (doesn't Japan _see_ how much this is going to hurt?), for every fucking inch of this little island.

But then he saw them, and for a moment that anger faded away like it was nothing. He'd been still running strong on the adrenaline spiking his system, and he guessed his boys were, too, but God—it just took his breath away.

Five of his men, the flag in their hands, were lifting it, over the wreck and carnage of the battlefield, over everything, so that it stood tall and waved in the breeze that blew, hot and steamy even this high up, over the mountain. And his injuries—they just stopped hurting. He could feel himself grinning even through the grime and the sweat coating his face, and for a moment, just a moment, he just let his eyes rest on the flag and smiled.

He knew this battle was going to be a fucking nightmare. He knew it. But in that moment, he'd never felt prouder. And in that moment, he knew he could win. Knew they could do it. He knew his men, knew they'd never let him down.

And, you know? In the end, he was right.  
_**  
That our flag was still there**_

1962

America only realized he was shaking after he'd closed the door behind him.

Mr. Kennedy was still inside, finishing up the response to Kruschev's offer, but all America could think about was Ivan's cold, angry gaze, and how he'd finally, just slightly, shifted his eyes away.

America's eyes fell on the flag across the hallway from him, and he pushed himself away from the door to cross the hall in three quick strides, reached out to rest his hand against the fabric. "Well," he said, "it looks like it's not going to be war, after all."

He hoped no one came along and saw him talking to his own flag—but then again, even if they did, he didn't think he really cared.

Ivan had backed down. He wouldn't have to attack Cuba—it wouldn't be nuclear war.

America grinned. Everything was going to be all right. He was a hero, after all.

"Glad you're still here," he said to the flag. "Hey, glad _I'm_ still here."

_**Oh, say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave**_

2001

"Come now, America, it's best if you're up and doing," England had said briskly that morning, even though his own eyes were red. America had fallen asleep on his couch the night before, curled into England's shoulder. He wasn't sure if England had stayed with him the entire night, but he knew whenever he'd flailed awake, gasping, his heart pounding, feeling the pain hot and stabbing all over again and seeing red flame and smoke and the towers collapsing behind his eyes, he'd felt strong arms warm around him, curling around his shoulders, and he'd been able to fall back asleep.

(He felt sick with more guilt on top of all the rest roiling in his gut that he'd come and spent the night in England's house, but he hadn't been able to sleep at home, and he'd just wanted . . . one night, somewhere else.)

America was bleary-eyed and sore all over, even though it was the most sleep he'd gotten in two days, the dull throbbing in his back and side worse than it had been the day before, but he nodded, because England was right, and let England pull him to his feet and coax him into taking a shower. He insisted, though, on going out for breakfast, and was surprised when England neither acted offended nor argued.

But he was even more surprised when after breakfast England walked him, quietly but insistently, in the direction of Buckingham Palace. There were an awful lot of people gathered around, he thought, but then, he guessed the changing of the guard was one of England's main tourist attractions. It was just starting as they approached the palace.

And he was surprised by the way England grabbed the sleeve of his jacket and set about cutting through the crowd, practically shoving his own people out of the way until they were standing at the front.

And then the first notes of the music lifted into the air and America looked at England, confused, because that sure didn't sound like "God Save the Queen"—

A moment later, he placed it, as the high soaring notes of "The Star-Spangled Banner" arched high above them, and even though he tried to stop his lips from trembling and tears from welling up, hot and stinging in his eyes, the attempt failed before it even really got started. He didn't dare blink, afraid that the moisture in his eyes would spill over. "E-England," he wavered, thickly. "You—you didn't have to—"

"Hush, you idiot," England said. "Of course I did."

America stood and listened for the entire thing, mouthing the words to himself, and England stood beside him, close enough that America could feel the warmth and solidity of his body next to him, but not touching. And if maybe the tears spilled over and ran down America's cheeks toward the end, for once, England didn't say a thing.  
_**  
O'er the land of the free**_

2009

He sat on the back of a tank outside Kandahar, his legs dangling over the side and the flag, folded, resting in his hands, a simple triangle of navy blue studded with white stars. He was waiting for one of his generals, his hair dank with sweat and sticking to his forehead, the back of his neck. His dogtags felt heavy and warm against his chest.

There were just a few days to go until his birthday. He had plans before then, things that needed to get done over here, before he could head back to the party he had planned and enjoy it, really enjoy it.

The cloth of the flag was soft and just a little scratchy under his roughened hands. He looked down at those hands and closed one of them over itself, feeling the callus left there from the rubbing of a gun's handle, where his fingers rested to pull the trigger.

He wasn't always a soldier, but his hands had gotten used to war.

America leaned back, leaving the flag resting on his lap, over his thighs, and propped his hands on the tank behind him. The sky was clear and blue, high and endless where it arched over his head.

How could he celebrate his birthday, knowing that he hadn't finished things here? He had to at least set things in motion. Things had been messed up here—eight freaking years of fighting—and he'd felt the uneasy knowledge of it in his stomach for his last couple birthdays.

He was excited for his birthday, he always was. Just knowing it was coming made everything seem that much brighter, that much _better_, until he thought he could hardly stand it, it was so awesome.

But this year, he'd see about getting this land some freedom, too.  
_**  
And the home of the brave.**_

Future

He's standing on the White House lawn, watching fireworks blossoming and booming above his head, and he leans back to look up at them and spread his arms wide and laughs, because the feelings in him are too big and wide and bright and perfect to be contained, because they have to spill out of him somehow, to float out across the lawn and reach up into the sky, his wide clear sky, because there's just too much, and because today's his day, and it always will be.

He can see the flag, _his_ flag, blowing, brilliant and proud with the lights on it catching the stars and making them shine like those in the sky the fireworks are too bright for him to see, catching the red and white of the stripes so they gleam in vivid color.

Stars and stripes forever.

_God bless America_, he thinks.

_Land that I love_.

Finis.

Historical/Author's Notes

Oh, goodness. Okay, here we go.

1. The Battles of Lexington and Concord were the first battles of the American Revolutionary War. The battle came to a close at Concord's Old North Bridge.

2. I'm not sure that John Adams actually had anything to do with designing the flag, but he was the only relevant historical figure I felt at all confident in my ability to write. America had no official flag as a country itself until the Flag Resolution of 1777, which stated, "Resolved, That the flag of the United States be thirteen stripes, alternate red and white; that the union be thirteen stars, white in a blue field, representing a new Constellation."

3. The Siege of Yorktown was the last decisive battle of the American Revolutionary War.

4. From Wikipedia: "The U.S. flag was brought to the city of Canton ((Guǎngzhōu) in China in 1785 by the merchant ship _Empress of China_, which carried a cargo of ginseng. There it gained the designation "Flower Flag [花旗]." According to author and U.S. Naval officer Goerge H. Preble:

'When the thirteen stripes and stars first appeared at Canton much curiosity was excited among the people. News was circulated that a strange ship had arrived from the farther end of the world, bearing a flag as beautiful as a flower. Everybody went to see the Fah-kay-cheun [花旗船], or flower-flag ship. This name at once established itself in the language, and America is now called Fah-kay-gawk [花旗國], the flower-flag country, and an American, Fah-kay-gawk-yun [花旗國人], flower-flag country man, — a more complimentary designation than that of red-headed barbarian, the name first bestowed on the Dutch.'

The above quote romanizes the Chinese words from spoken Cantonese. In Mandarin, the official Chinese language, "Flower Flag Nation" is rendered as _Huāqíguó_ (花旗國). These names were common usage in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries."

5. The Gettysburg Address was a speech by Abraham Lincoln and one of the most quoted speeches in United States history. It was delivered at the dedication of the Soldiers' National Cemetery in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, on the afternoon of Thursday, November 19, 1863, during the American Civil War, four and a half months after the Union armies defeated those of the Confederacy at the decisive Battle of Gettysburg.

6. The _Statue of Liberty_ was a gift to the people of the United States from the people of France for America's Centennial Anniversary. The full name of it is, in fact, "Liberty Enlightening the World." And it's true the French spent months discussing what to give America for the Centennial, even before they started building it, which I thought was . . . strangely adorable.

7. According to the United States Flag Code, the flag should never be dipped to any person or thing, unless it is the ensign responding to a salute from a ship of a foreign nation. (This tradition may come from the 1908 Summer Olympics in London, where countries were asked to dip their flag to King Edward VII: the American flag bearer did not. Team captain Martin Sheridan is famously quoted as saying "this flag dips to no earthly king", though the true provenance of this quotation is unclear.)

8. After submarines sank seven U.S. merchant ships and the publication of the Zimmerman telegram, President Wilson called for war on Germany, which the U.S. Congress declared on 6 April 1917, and America joined World War I.

9. The Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor led the United States to join World War II. Um. Yeah.

10. The Battle of Iwo Jima (February 19–March 26, 1945), or Operation Detachment, was a battle in which the United States fought for and captured the island of Iwo Jima from Japan. The battle produced some of the fiercest fighting in the Pacific Campaign of World War II.

10. The Cuban Missile Crisis was in 1962.

11. At the Changing of the Guard on September 12, 2001 at Buckingham Palace in London, the Band of the Grenadier Guards played the Star Spangled Banner in place of the British National Anthem as a show of support for her ally who had been attacked by terrorists the day before.

12. The United States armed forces launched Operation: Strike of the Sword against the Taliban in Helmand, Afghanistan on July 2.


End file.
